


Slip

by INMH



Series: Merry Month of Masturbation Fills (2017) [7]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2017, Prostitution, Sexual Content, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 07:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: This is not an assassination, but boy, Cassian wishes it was.





	Slip

Cassian has done a lot of things for the Rebellion.  
  
This is probably one of the more…  
  
One of the more…  
  
…Distressing things.  
  
He’s not bad-looking; quite a bit older than him, severe, but attractive all the same. Cassian might have given him a second look if he’d passed him in the street, or come across him in the command center.  
  
Except he’s not a random man on the street, or a member of the Rebellion; he’s an Imperial Officer.  
  
It takes just about _everything_ in Cassian’s power not to spit at him, to punch that calm, cool look right off of his face. This isn’t an assassination mission, however badly he wishes it was.  
  
Instead, he forces a smooth, sexy smirk and leans back on the bed, on his elbows. “Are you coming over?” He drags his fingers over the hem of his pants invitingly. Cassian is accomplished at slipping in and out of whatever persona he needs to use to get the job done, which is precisely why he ends up doing these kinds of things on a regular basis, whether he likes it or not.  
  
This particular officer, according to the Rebellion’s intelligence, enjoys the discreet company of attractive young men, usually at a particular brothel on a particular planet. It was not difficult to bribe the proprietor of the establishment to allow Cassian to handle this particular customer, especially after promising that he would receive all of the money that the officer paid for Cassian’s services.  
  
The officer in question studies him in a way that’s indisputably clinical in its associations and doesn’t speak. Cassian really and truly hopes that the officer’s encounters with the usual employees of this establishment aren’t any stranger than the usual things that go on in brothels. He has limits, damn it, and sex is one thing but if this guy ties him up and asks to be called ‘Daddy’ or something Cassian’s just going to bash him over the head with something and-  
  
“I’d like you to handle yourself, actually.”  
  
Cassian blinks. “Pardon?”  
  
The officer shifts his weight in the chair he’s sitting in, near the door. “I said, ‘I’d like you to handle yourself’.”  
  
Cassian feels a mild surge of relief. Alright, so at least _part_ of this encounter won’t involve being touched intimately by his enemy; still, the idea of masturbating in front of him, of giving him pleasure in any way, shape, or form, remains unappealing.  
  
But he pushes his disgust to the side and scoots backwards until he’s propped up against the pillow. He pushes his pants and underwear down in one go and takes hold of himself, and it’s a fight to keep his eyes open, because it’s probably going to be an Issue if he closes them; at the very least, it will probably be seen as suspicious, not the behavior of a seasoned prostitute who’s accustomed to prioritizing a client’s needs. He forces himself to make eye-contact with him.  
  
Internally, Cassian’s brain just sort of sighs and thinks, _just do what you always do: pretend it’s someone else._  
  
He’d never be able to do this sort of thing if he could only get off on the person in front of him. This is the first time Cassian’s had to perform sexually for an Imperial Officer, but it’s not the first time he’s had to get up-close and personal with someone to get information. And usually it’s not a problem: At best, a nice fuck to take the edge off of a very stressful career, and at worst, an inconvenience. Cassian has yet to run into anyone stupid enough to do more than he would allow; he’s been told more than once that he’s got the eyes of a man who’s seen too much, who’s best not trifled with, and it helps.  
  
Except for right now.  
  
Right now, he needs to look like he _wants_ to be trifled with.  
  
Cassian strokes himself to the mental image of more desirable partners of the past: Aurora, the nurse at the Hoth base who’d treated him for a blaster bolt to the leg and ended up jerking him off later on; Desmond, a fellow Rebel who was affectionately known as the Alliance’s favorite Tauntaun (because everyone had had a ride, Cassian included); and Hiri, an informant on Corellia with a devilish smile and a great deal of talent with her mouth.  
  
Cassian’s not a loud person in general, and that extends to his sexual encounters. The loud, wanton moans he lets out now sound strange and more than slightly embarrassing to his ears, but at least the embarrassment allows him to blush a bit, add a bit of color to the act. The officer watches, but doesn’t touch himself. In fact, apart from a slight bulge in his pants, there’s not a lot of evidence that he’s getting off on this at all. Cassian’s anxiety is inching ever-higher in tandem with his arousal, but considers that it is maybe just a weird facet of… Well, whatever this officer’s odd sexual preferences are. Cassian supposes there are stranger things in the galaxy.  
  
The thumb of one hand toys with the slit of his cock, and he thrusts into his hand with increasing energy, a pleasant, familiar feeling rising in his groin. His other hand peels away from his cock and moves to his chest, which he strokes lightly, teasingly. If the officer plans on getting in on this, he’d better move quickly, because otherwise Cassian plans on finishing without him.  
  
He deliberately moans louder, gives a little extra power to his thrusts to underscore his urgency. In the event that he’s dealing with an exceptionally thick-headed Imperial, Cassian throws in, “I’m going to, shit, I’m going to…”  
  
But the officer does nothing.  
  
Cassian lets his eyes flutter shut as he comes, and in the throes of orgasm he’s considerably less self-conscious about the sounds he’s making, throaty moans better suited to pornographic holovids than a Rebel captain.  
  
When the pleasure subsides to a pleasant buzz, Cassian smiles slyly at the officer and tries not to look like he doesn’t know what to do with his hand, which is currently covered in semen. He reluctantly settles it down on his thigh, trying not to grimace (Cassian’s never been able to tolerate having semen sitting on his skin, it’s just a _thing_ he has); it’s only after a few seconds that he remembers there’s a box of tissues on the side-table.  
  
“Did you like the show?” He asks the Imperial after no less than three minutes of complete silence. The orgasm has worn off, but Cassian’s concerned anxiety is still climbing. He doesn’t like the way this man is looking at him, and he doesn’t like the fact that he hasn’t reacted at all to watching Cassian get himself off. It makes him feel like the officer _knows_ something, even though logic dictates that he shouldn’t.  
  
Kay is outside. Literally, he is right below the window, one story down. He’s probably heard every moan Cassian’s choked out in the last several minutes, and is probably ruefully wondering at the strange behaviors of organics and their sexual practices. But all Cassian needs to do is yell and he’ll come running.  
  
It’s just a matter of making sure he needs to yell.  
  
Because if he does, it’s game over, mission fail, and Cassian will have jacked off in front of a fucking Imperial Officer for nothing.  
  
After a long moment, the officer stands. Cassian watches him with (what he hopes is) a very convincing expression of eagerness. The man strides over to the bed with slow, careful, measured steps, eyes locked with Cassian’s. He undoes his belt with smooth, fluid movements, and Cassian realizes with no small amount of disappointment that he isn’t going to get out of this with no physical contact.  
  
The officer climbs on top of him, pants pulled down just enough to expose his cock, and there’s no foreplay to it at all: He takes Cassian’s mouth with a rough kiss and grinds himself against the younger man with quick but controlled thrusts. Cassian reciprocates as best he can, surprised, tired, and unenthusiastic though he is. The grinding and kissing does nothing for him; he’s already come, and he’s still decently disgusted at the fact that he’s kissing a man who has likely butchered innocent people.  
  
He compensates by slipping his hand into the bastard’s pocket and pulling out a small datapad that, the Force willing, will have something _useful_ on it. Cassian slides the datapad under his own back and prays the officer will shut his eyes or turn his back long enough that he’ll be able to slip it under the pillow where it’s least likely to be found if this encounter ends up dragging on.  
  
When the Imperial comes, it’s with a slight grunt into Cassian’s ear and a splash of something wet and sticky on his stomach. Cassian has to bite his lip to hold back his irritation, especially since the man doesn’t stop his jerking for a few moments and the semen is rubbed into Cassian’s skin.  
  
_The things I do for this fucking rebellion,_ he thinks even as he moans, tries to pretend like having a stranger’s, an _Imperial’s_ semen coating his skin is hot instead of nauseating. Cassian focuses on the painful dig of the datapad into his back as a distraction. The Imperial’s eyes are shut for about twenty seconds as he composes himself, and Cassian takes his chance, yanking the datapad out from beneath him and deftly slipping it under the pillow, feigning a stretch.  
  
Now comes the test, the gut-churning moment of ‘I did it, now can I get away with it?’ There’s always a risk of failure. There’s a very distinct possibility that this guy’s going to stand up, pull up his pants, and realize that his pocket is lighter than it should be. Come to think of it, Cassian’s just realizing that maybe grabbing the datapad was a bad move, because now he’s realizing that the odds of the Imperial realizing it’s gone are a lot higher than he’d considered when he’d grabbed it.  
  
This, this is one of the many reasons Cassian keeps Kay around. Statistics would be good in a moment like this.  
  
After what feels like an eternity, the Imperial opens his eyes, and he seems to be every bit as unaffected by what’s just transpired as he was when Cassian was performing for him. He sniffs, grabs a tissue from the box and cleans himself off, then stands up and begins readjusting his clothing.  
  
Cassian smiles. “Did you like _that_ , at least?” He says it just as the officer is pulling up his pants, heart-pounding, hoping to any and all cosmic forces that it will prevent him from noticing the missing datapad. “I’m used to getting more feedback from my customers.”  
  
The Imperial raises an eyebrow at him disdainfully as he redoes his belt. “I’ll bet you are,” He remarks with no small amount of condescension in his tone.  
  
Cassian’s smile turns toothy. How very fucking typical: The man is willing to employ a prostitute to act out his sexual bullshit with, and yet he still has the audacity to view them as trash. It cuts deeper than maybe it should, because Cassian is not a prostitute by profession, but he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t accept that he became one on a regular basis to get what he needed from people.  
  
_I’m going to enjoy burning your Empire to the ground, you prick,_ he thinks.  
  
“So, nothing else for today, sir?” He says that bit out loud, forcibly pushing the aggravation out of his voice.  
  
“No. We’re done.”  
  
Cassian takes a slow, quiet breath, and keeps the customer-service-with-a-smile face on. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, sir. Come back again sometime.”  
  
The Imperial snorts, and thank the Force, that’s the last sound Cassian has to hear from him. He straightens his clothing and leaves the room without so much as a ‘thanks’. Cassian waits two beats after the door closes before allowing himself a small, whispered release:  
  
“Fucking prick.”  
  
After five beats, he jumps off the bed and pulls his underwear and pants up, then moves quickly for his shirt, jacket, shoes, and socks. The faster he gets out of the room, the better; every moment he delays is another moment for the Imperial to realize he’s missing something and retrace his steps to the last person who had their hands within range of his pockets.  
  
Not only was he a prick, but he was a stupid prick too, Cassian ruminated as he rapidly laced his boots. If he were having sex with someone, literally the first thing he would do would be to tuck away any sensitive materials on his person someplace where they couldn’t be accessed. But then, from the amount of prickery Cassian had observed, the man probably didn’t think some dizzy whore was gutsy enough to steal from an Imperial Officer.  
  
Well, hopefully he’d learned a valuable lesson.  
  
Even if he didn’t learn it on his own, he probably would when his superiors found out he’d lost his datapad in a brothel.  
  
Fully dressed, datapad tucked into his pocket, Cassian goes over to the window and nimbly climbs out, lowering himself as much as he can before he allows himself to drop to the ground.  
  
“Are we done here, Cassian?”  
  
Kay is standing against the wall, and likely has been for the last hour and a half. Cassian wants to roll his eyes, because really, it looks like he and Kay need to have another conversation about what constitutes suspicious behavior, because an Imperial droid standing motionless in a back alley outside a brothel looks _incredibly_ suspicious. But that’s a conversation for later.  
  
Preferably after Cassian’s had a very _long_ shower.  
  
“Yeah, Kay, we’re done.”  
  
-End


End file.
